


Yesterday's Child

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin - Freeform, BAMF John, Confrontations, First Meetings, Guns, Humor, John's daughter, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Shopping, Surprises, mary is a bit not good, not S4 compliant?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 00:06:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Grocery shopping is usually a boring, tedious thing to do, but leave it to John and Sherlock to have a major encounter on the way home--one that could change their lives or end them.





	Yesterday's Child

“Doctor Watson?”

 

John stopped in mid-stride at the sound of the light, feminine voice behind him. He had been out shopping at the local Tesco’s and had been deep in thought about what he would be doing later that day. It was cold enough to freeze a fountain that day, so he was looking forward to the warmth of the flat. Though annoyed to have been interrupted, he turned slowly and composed his face into the most pleasant expression of which he was capable.

 

“Excuse me?” he inquired.

 

A young woman, hardly more than a teenager, stood a short distance behind him. Golden blonde hair framed a pretty, delicate face with huge blue eyes. He had bustled by her without even being aware of her presence until she had spoken. Now she took a few tentative steps forward, her hands plunged deep in the fur-lined pocket of her stylish jacket.

 

“Are you Doctor John Watson, the man who works with Sherlock Holmes, the detective?” she asked, eyes wide in curiosity. She chewed nervously, but prettily, at her lower lip while she awaited his response.

 

John held his ground and canted his head to the side in curiosity…and wariness. He wasn’t usually accosted on the street by complete strangers asking about his relationship with Sherlock. He had put an end to that years ago by asking the detective to marry him, thereby making all inquiries moot. Yet this young woman’s approach was different.

 

“Actually, yes, I am. Is there something you need help with? Our office is right around the corner, if you wish to consult…” he started, before his words were cut off by the sight of the small black gun with the silencer on the end aimed at his chest. “Wait, wha…”

 

“Shut up and don’t draw any attention to us from the main street. I chose this spot so that we could ‘talk’ without being interrupted,” she hissed, her face suddenly transformed from debutante to ice princess. Even worse, she now seemed strangely familiar.

 

John cursed under his breath for taking the back-street shortcut to get back to 221B. Usually it wasn’t a problem, with Sherlock’s homeless network scattered about the area. Home-grown security could easily be taken for granted. John had forgotten that Sherlock had sent most of them off on a search for a client’s under-aged daughter who had disappeared yesterday without a call or note. Her mother had been frantic, fearing that the girl’s older boyfriend might have absconded with her. Now that order was coming back to bite John in the arse.

 

He shifted his weight to take some of the strain of the heavy plastic bags burdening him. With both hands duly occupied, he couldn’t even grab his gun---the one he had left in the flat. He cursed again. When it hits the fan, it splatters.

 

“May I ask what you need from me, miss? I assure you, the gun is unnecessary…”

 

“Oh, no,” she snapped back, blue eyes hard as drill bits, boring into his own. “It’s totally necessary. You see, I have an old score to settle with you, _Doctor_ _Watson_ , and I won’t let anyone or anything get in my way. You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

 

Standing in the alley, with brick walls on either side, the main street still over twenty feet behind, and a gun-wielding woman in front of him, John should have been terrified. However, the ex-military doctor had never been one to panic. Staunch of heart and clear of head, he stood, resolutely, before his captor and…smiled. A mirthless smile that made the young woman’s nose wrinkle in confusion and concern.

 

“I really don’t have time for this, young lady. In case you’re wondering, I’ve dealt with greater threats than you before my morning tea. I would advise that you put that ridiculous toy away and leave before I decide I’m no longer amused,” he said, conversationally, pleased at the sudden loss of confidence displayed by the girl.

 

She lifted the gun, her hands betraying a slight tremor, as she said, “You can’t talk your way out of this. Mother warned me about you. And you can stop trying to psych me out by looking behind me. I know all about that tri…”

 

The young woman’s words were cut off by a dull thud. She stiffened and dropped like a bag of rocks, a frozen Cornish hen landing beside her. John smiled, this time in honest pleasure tinged with relief. He set both bags down and crossed his arms in mock annoyance.

 

A tall, slender man sauntered up to him, holding two more plastic bags. He set one down so that he could retrieve the Cornish hen and place it back in the bag. Despite his miff, John had to admire the natural grace of the man, as well as his well-aimed throw.

 

“Good shot. About time you got here, Sherlock,” John groused. “I was wondering where you had scarpered off to.”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I told you I had an errand to run and that I would be along shortly. I had noticed that we—or, rather, you--were being followed on our way to Tesco’s, so I took another route.” He looked down at his victim as she moaned and shifted on the ground. “You might want to remove her access to her weapon, John.”

 

Nonchalantly, John stepped on her wrist when she half-consciously scrabbled for the gun while Sherlock sent a text on his phone. She moaned as she awakened fully, then hissed, “Get the hell off my wrist, you bloody bastard!”

 

“Such language from a young woman,” Sherlock tutted. “I would have expected better of you if I hadn’t seen the gun tucked into your pocket. You really must be more careful about how you conceal your weapons in the future, Ms. Watson.”

 

John’s head swung around so fast his neck cracked. “Watson?” he stammered. “As in…”

 

“As in Rosamund Mary Watson, dear,” a familiar voice rang down the alley, causing both men to turn. “You _do_ remember, don’t you, _love_?” she continued, staring at John, scorn dripping from the last word.

 

The woman standing a few meters away was, unfortunately, far too familiar for either man’s taste. Blonde hair with touches of gray, an elfin face with huge eyes, and a large black gun with a silencer brought back many unpleasant memories for the two. Sherlock, in particular, had been intimately introduced to it in Magnussen’s office, when Mary Watson had turned down his offer of assistance in the most permanent way possible.

 

John swallowed hard but refused to show any trepidation. He glanced at Sherlock, gauging his reaction. Sherlock’s face was impassive, but John knew him well—saw the throbbing carotid artery in his throat and the pinpoint pupils in his silver eyes. Sherlock was ready to take action at John’s signal. Their many years together had created a near-psychic bond between the two, with John learning volumes about crime  investigation from the tall detective.

 

The girl pulled her wrist out from under John’s unresisting foot and grabbed up her gun as she regained her feet. She pushed her hair out of her face as she took a few steps back and re-sighted her gun on John.

 

Mary sauntered out of the shadows of the alley with a reptilian smile plastered on her lips. “My daughter said she wanted to meet her father, so I ‘arranged’ a meeting. I think she may have some things to say to you.”

 

“You abandoned us. You betrayed Mum to her enemies and forced her into hiding. You never even inquired about us,” the younger woman spat. She gestured with the gun. “All those years. You never really cared about us, did you?” She stepped forward again, threateningly, closing the distance between them.

 

John stood, unmoving, his face expressionless. “Is that what your mother told you?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Then she lied,” John stated, flatly, unimpressed by her anger.

 

The girl wavered. “No. No, Mum has never lied to me. She’s always been the only one…”

 

“Who’s told you about your past, isn’t she?” Sherlock interrupted, standing beside his smaller husband, hands behind his back.

 

“You shut up, ‘Posh Boy’,” Rosamund snarled. “This doesn’t concern you.”

 

Sherlock smirked. _Someone_ had been talking in his sleep all those years ago…

 

“Yes, it does, Mum,” the girl shot back. “My father abandoned us for this…piece of shite. I want to know _why_.”

 

“Oh, just shoot him, dear, and be done with it. That’s how I trained you, remember?”

 

John’s face twisted in anger as repositioned himself so that he was standing on the balls of his feet, ready to move if he felt threatened. He reached behind Sherlock and felt that his arms were tense under his heavy sleeves. Sherlock had obviously formulated his own plan and was ready to go.

 

After clearing his throat, John stated, calmly, “I did not abandon you, Rosie.” He watched as her face screwed up in disgust at the nickname. “I loved you, very much. Your mother took you away when she found out she was being pursued by some old enemies who were a lot more ruthless than Sherlock and I could ever be. I searched for you _and_ your mother, after she faked her death. Did she tell you that part, Rosie?”

 

For the second time, the young woman looked unsure of herself. She took a step forward and looked over her shoulder at her mother briefly before returning her gaze to John. “No. She said that you had told her enemies where to find her and she had to flee. She took me because she was afraid of what would happen to me…”

 

“If left alone in the care of a good man who would have given you everything, and then some,” Sherlock piped up again. “You have no idea who John Watson is, and neither does your mother. She treated him shamefully, then blamed her misfortunes, which were due to her own unsavory past as an assassin, on him. She stole you away to punish him.”

 

“SHUT UP!” Rosamund shrieked as her daughter’s face registered total shock. “Shoot him, Rosie! He’s as big a liar as your father!”

 

Rosie wavered, not sure which way to go. Sherlock took one step in front of John, much to John’s dismay, and said, “If you want to kill him, you will have to go through me. I will not stand idly by while you do your mother’s dirty work by killing the finest, most caring, most upstanding man I have ever had the privilege to know.”

 

John attempted to push past Sherlock, who shoved him back behind him. There ensued a struggle between them that, under different circumstances, would have been comical, each trying to get in front of the other while the two women looked on, mystified by this turn of events.

 

“Out of my way, Sherlock! I won’t have you taking a bullet for me…”

 

“Who better, John? Your ex-wife shot me once and I survived, why would her daughter be a better shot?”

 

“MOVE, damn you!”

 

“ _NO_!”

 

“GET OUT OF THE WAY, YOU INCREDIBLE PRAT!”

 

“STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!” Rosamund hollered. The two men stopped, shoulder to shoulder. “Rosie, do what I told you to do! Shoot them both!” She raised her own pistol only, this time, she aimed it at her daughter.

 

“Look, Rosie!” John shouted. “Your own mother has a gun trained on you! What do you think of that?”

 

Rosie looked panic-stricken. “Mum! What…?”

 

“Would this be your first kill, Rosie?” Sherlock asked, softly. She nodded. “Then don’t do it,” he continued, his deep voice soothing. “This isn’t you. This is your mother trying to turn you into her, into the murdering monster who kidnapped you and trained you to be a merciless assassin. It’s all she knows, unless she decided to send you to nursing school, but I think that’s rather unlikely, isn’t it Rosamund?”

 

Rosamund stalked up to her daughter, her gun never wavering. Rosie’s eyes grew even larger than normal. “Mum?” she said in a tiny voice.

 

“Do it, you little weakling,” Rosamund said, her voice like steel. “Kill them, or I’ll kill you and _then_ them. I didn’t raise you to be like him.” She jerked her head toward John.

 

Rosie’s lower lip quivered. “Then, it’s true. You did kidnap me, took me away from my father because you wanted revenge.” Her eyes began to fill with tears.

 

Rosamund ticked her tongue in disgust. “You and your father—two of a kind. Both unable to do the difficult things when they are required. Too much _heart_.” She raised her gun to sight on Rosie’s head.

 

John readied to launch himself across the short distance to where Rosie now stood. Before he could move, however, Sherlock’s long arm shot out across his chest and halted him mid-stride.  


“Sherlock,” John hissed.

 

“Wait,” Sherlock returned, calmly.

 

Faced with a loaded gun aimed at her head, Rosie turned and sighted along her gun barrel at John’s chest. John could see her finger tightening on the trigger and, at the same time, felt Sherlock’s fingers curling around his body in preparation for dragging John out of the way.

 

Rosie suddenly burst out into tears. “I’m sorry, Mum, I can’t do it, I…he’s my father!”

 

Rosamund’s nose crinkled in disgust. “Then you’re useless to me.” She pointed the gun…

 

‘Scotland Yard! Drop it!” a powerful voice rang out as multiple footfalls ran into the alley from both ends. Policemen surrounded the group with guns drawn as Lestrade sauntered into the midst of them, raising his hand to hold their fire.

 

Rosie dropped her gun and put her hands up as Rosamund froze, undecided on her best action.

 

“You’re already going to the gallows, Rosamund,” Sherlock’s voice cut the tension in the alleyway. “We have more than enough evidence for that. Will you destroy your daughter, too, just to get back at John?”

 

“That would be pointless, you know,” John quipped, stepping out from behind Sherlock’s protective arm. “After you left, I had a DNA test done on Rosie. Turns out, she’s not mine. Not at all.”

 

Everyone’s eyes turned to look at John with astonishment.

 

“You lie,” Rosamund snapped, but she looked unsure of herself. Her gun hand never wavered.  


“Nope,” John shook his head. “She’s David’s. You remember David, your confidante, the one you allowed to be killed so you could get away with Rosie? Did he even know, Mary?”

 

Her hand shook at the mention of her previous name. Rosie rounded on her mother.

 

“You knew? All this time, you knew, and you lied to me?” she asked, incredulous. Tears burst from her eyes and she collapsed in on herself, weeping.

 

“Drop it, Mary,” Lestrade advised. “I have absolutely no problem with one of the boys taking you out.”

 

Rosamund lowered her gun and allowed an officer to take it from her hands. “I’m sorry, Rosie, truly I am,” she murmured, her shoulders slumping.

 

“Just like when you shot me, right, Mary?” Sherlock couldn’t help himself. “’So sorry, Sherlock’, you said. But you weren’t sorry at all. You would have sent John into a depression from which he would never have recovered just so you could continue to use him as your ‘cover’. That is colder than anything I have ever done, and I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

 

John gave Sherlock the fisheye. “Liar. You have a heart like a warm marshmallow.”

 

“John, please. I have a reputation to uphold,” Sherlock retorted, acting all affronted. John grinned in relief and reached for his husband’s hand, which immediately grasped his so tightly in return that it hurt.

 

Rosamund spared them both a defeated, yet defiant, look. “How did you know I was here?”

 

“Mycroft alerted me that you’d been sighted again. I made arrangements with the good Inspector,” he tipped his head in Lestrade’s direction and Lestrade smiled in satisfaction. “that I would send him a text message if we were ever accosted by you or one of your agents. I even turned on my mobile’s directional app so he could find us quickly.” He nudged John good-naturedly. “The best one is on a dating app.”

 

“Could have done without knowing that,” John muttered. Sherlock squeezed his hand again.

 

Rosie had sunk to the ground and was saying, over and over again, “Mum, how could you? How could you…”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Rosie, show some spine. I don’t know why I ever thought I could teach you anything useful,” she said dismissively as Lestrade snapped the cuffs on her and allowed his officers to lead her away.

 

John released Sherlock’s hand and walked over to Rosie, kneeling beside her. He brushed his hand over her hair. “You know, the fact that you weren’t mine didn’t erase the feelings I had for you while you were with me,” he said softly, gently. “You were my little girl, and I promise I will do whatever I can to make this right for you.”

 

She looked up at him, eyes red and swollen, her face blotchy from crying. “Why is she like that, Dr. Watson? Why? She’s my Mum…”

 

“She’s also a psychopath,” Sherlock chimed in as he came over to stand behind John. “She has no real emotions but is very good at faking them.”

 

“Sherlock, not now,” John said, and, for once, Sherlock shut up. John helped the girl to her feet as an officer moved in to cuff her. “Is that really necessary?” he asked.

 

Lestrade picked up her gun and stated, “John, she threatened to kill you. She’s dangerous.”

 

“She’s a little girl who was lied to and mislead,” John retorted.

 

“And taught to be an assassin,” Lestrade pointed out.

 

Before she was led away, Rosie turned her teary face to John and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson. I’m so, so sorry for what I did. You’re a nice man,” her eyes turned to Sherlock, “and you, too, Mr. Holmes. I’m so sorry…” She burst into tears again as she was led away. John impulsively stepped forward.

 

A large, graceful hand rested on John’s shoulder, halting his progress. “John, let them do their job. Once it is all sorted out, we’ll discuss what we’re going to do with Rosie.”

 

John turned his head to look up at his husband, startled. “We?”

 

Sherlock smiled down at him. “Yes, of course, John. I remember her, too,” he said, gently. “I don’t let just anyone pelt me in the face with a rattle, you know!” He kissed John’s hair, right in front of everyone. “Where you go, I go. That was in our marriage vows, remember?”

 

“How could I forget?” John sighed before looking around the alley, where bags had been knocked over in their struggle to be the first one shot. “Well, the groceries are buggered.”

 

“Nonsense, John,” Sherlock’s nose crinkled in that way that John loved. “I’m sure they’ll be fine, once we get them back and clean them off.”

 

“Not so sure about that Cornish hen,” John observed.

 

Sherlock grinned. “Pre-tenderized,” he quipped.

 

They both laughed as they gathered up the groceries. Lestrade helped them.

 

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock stated, “I knew she wasn’t yours, John.”

 

John growled, “Of course you did, Sherlock. I told you…”

 

Sherlock shook his head and smiled smugly. “No, John, long before that.”

 

Lestrade straightened up, listening but pretending not to.

 

 “Really? When?” John asked, surprised.

 

“Back when you saw your doctor for that prostate problem…”

 

“Sherlo-o-ock…” mildly but with intent. Lestrade studied his fingernails.

 

“Yes, I spoke with your GP about it, as your husband, and he informed me that, based on your sperm count, you were quite sterile,” he said, innocently.

 

“Sherlock!” Scandalized. Lestrade coughed and covered his mouth with his hand to hide his grin.

 

“Yes, you were into negative numbers…”

 

“SHERLOCK!” Angrily.  Lestrade turned his back to conceal a chuckle.

 

“Shooting blanks…”

 

_SHERLOCK! Dammit!”_  

 

Lestrade doubled over in laughter. “You two ought to have your own comedy show,” he wheezed between breaths.

 

John dropped his newly-reassembled grocery bags to the ground. “I know how to shut you up!” he snarled, marching over to his husband and giving Sherlock a long, deep kiss that curled the detective’s toes inside his expensive brogues.

 

Still chuckling, Lestrade said, “Oi, you two better nip on home before somebody sees you and files an indecency complaint! Go on, off with you!” He waved, following his men back to the main street.

 

“Well, I feel _much_ warmer now,” Sherlock remarked when John finally broke the kiss.

 

John chuckled. “Yeah, let’s get a move on. We can build a nice fire and put the groceries away…”

 

They both grinned at each other. They knew the groceries could wait as they hurried back to the warmth and relative safety of 221B.

 

 

 

 


End file.
